


Insert Bad Pun Here

by yodasyoyo



Series: 1008 tumblr followers! A.K.A. The Fluffy Assholes Collection. [8]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Isaac is done with their shit, M/M, Pining, Professor!Derek, Socially Awkward Derek, Stiles Stilinski Woos Derek Hale, oblivous Derek, professor!Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 07:22:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15990416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yodasyoyo/pseuds/yodasyoyo
Summary: As Derek glares intently, Stiles looks up, catches his eye. He looks around in confusion and then, when he decides that no, Derek is actually looking at him, he flushes and tentatively lifts a hand and waves.Derek’s jaw clenches. He blinks twice. Then he turns back to Isaac who’s watching him, one eyebrow raised.“What?” Derek asks.“Nothing.” Isaac smirks. Then says, “Thirsty, huh?”“Yeah,” Derek mutters. “Let’s go get a drink.”“That’s not– never mind.” Isaac trails after him to their favorite campus coffee shop.-





	Insert Bad Pun Here

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for my 1008 followers celebration on tumblr and it's a day late! Sorry about that. I tried to write it last night but I so exhausted I fell asleep on my couch instead. xD
> 
> The prompt was: You're about as useful as a screen door on submarine.
> 
> Now. True story about this fic. About three years ago I entered a writing competition where they give you a random prompt. A genre, a location and an object, and my group got Romance, Petrochemical plant and Encyclopedia. So I wrote a 1k flash fiction story about two chemical engineers, one of whom was socially awkward, and the other who tried woo them with bad chemistry puns. One day, I thought, I will adapt this story for Sterek-- and now the time has come xD
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this. As it turns out, in this particular fic, Isaac is the real MVP.

Derek doesn’t know why the new professor annoys him so much– they’ve never so much as had a conversation with each other, but somehow that doesn’t matter. He’s seen him around campus a few times now and even that’s enough for Derek to know that there’s something about him.

He never seems to shut up, for one thing. And it isn’t just talking, no. It’s the way he talks. This guy treats conversation like it’s a whole body activity. Hands gesticulating wildly, shoulders shaking with laughter, shifting from foot to foot, that wide, mobile mouth open in amazement or stretching wide into a grin. It’s so unnecessary. Such a waste of energy. Derek gets exhausted watching him, but he can’t stop staring. It’s infuriating.

Two weeks into the semester Derek's standing in the quad with Isaac, his fellow Chem professor, and the person Derek’s shared an office with for the last two years, when he spots the new guy coming towards them. The guy has a couple of binders tucked under one arm, a cup of coffee in the other, and he’s talking animatedly to Lydia Martin, math genius and all round terrifying human being. The fact the guy’s hands are full isn’t preventing his usual conversational flailing, and as Derek watches him he manages to slop coffee all down his own shirt.

“Who is that guy?” Derek mumbles, shaking his head.

Isaac follows his gaze. “The new Physics professor. Something Stilinski, don’t know his first name, but everyone calls him Stiles. He was some kind of child prodigy apparently. Super smart. A real innovator in his field. The dean loves him. He got Chris Argent’s old office.”

“Argent’s office? With the view of– but–how is that fair? I’ve been here ten years and he just turns up and bags Argent’s old office” Derek sputters. He glares in Stiles’ direction. The guy is standing under a tree a ways off, still chatting animatedly with Professor Martin, while she dabs at his ruined shirt with a tissue, a begrudging smile on her face. Something twists in Derek’s gut. “He’s basically a fetus.”

“He’s thirty, apparently,” Isaac says, “He just looks young. And I told you. The dean loves him. Says he’s gonna bring in a lot of money with his exciting new research on–” He waves a hand airily. “Something or other.”

Well that’s just great. That’s just fucking aces. It’s another thing to add to the growing list Derek’s compiling of reasons he hates this guy. This Stiles. _Stiles_ , Derek sneers to himself, _that’s not even a name, and he walks in and takes the best office? And gets the dean to love him. And somehow makes Lydia Martin,_ a woman so innately terrifying that Derek has spent five years avoiding her at all costs _, smile?_

Ugh. Who the hell does this guy think he is? With his stupid hands. And that mouth. And–  
  
As Derek glares intently, Stiles looks up, catches his eye. He looks around in confusion and then, when he decides that no, Derek is actually looking at him, he flushes and tentatively lifts a hand and waves.

Derek’s jaw clenches. He blinks twice. Then he turns back to Isaac who’s watching him, one eyebrow raised.

“What?” Derek asks.

“Nothing.” Isaac smirks. Then says, “Thirsty, huh?”

“Yeah,” Derek mutters. “Let’s go get a drink.”

“That’s not– never mind.” Isaac trails after him to their favorite campus coffee shop.

-

The next time Derek sees Stiles is a couple days later. He’s on his way to teach a class, is gonna be late if he’s not careful, and he sees Stiles hurrying towards him in the corridor, arms cradling a towering stack of papers. His shoelace is untied, trailing on along the floor behind him.

Stiles catches his eye as they approach each other, smiles. And, reflexively, Derek smiles back in spite of himself. A second later Stiles trips over his shoelace and the papers he’s carrying explode into the air like a mushroom cloud.

“Shit,” Stiles says, crouching to the floor to pick them up. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

Derek should keep going. He has a class to teach. But instead he bends down and spends a few moments hurriedly gathering as many of the outliers as he can before they get trampled by any of the students. Then he walks over to where Stiles is hunkered down, sticks out his hand and offers them out to him. “Here.”

Stiles’ head snaps up. “Dude,” he says relieved. “Thanks so much, seriously. You’re a lifesaver.” He reaches out to take the papers mouth curving up in a grateful smile, lips slightly parted.

Derek swallows. “Tie your damn shoelace,” he says, and strides off down the hallway to get to his class.

Seriously. He can’t believe this is the guy that got Argent’s old office.

-

Chris Argent retired last semester after eighteen years teaching Synthetic Organic Chemistry at BHU. His office had been on the floor above Derek and Isaac’s, and sometimes after Derek taught a class in that part of the building he would drop by and say hi, and they’d chat for a few minutes. He’d never been a friend exactly, but he was someone Derek respected, a valued colleague.

When that office belonged to Chris it had been immaculate. A big ornate walnut desk in the center with a comfortable leather back chair. The shelves behind him filled with books, and rows of binders standing proudly like soldiers awaiting inspection. Everything pristine and organized.

The first time Derek walks past that same office after Stiles has taken it over, he double takes, then actually stops and walks back a couple steps to take in the damage. It’s insane. Like a bomb has exploded in a paper factory. Files are piled on the desk in mounds, they’ve formed drifts on the floor too, towers of binders teeter dangerously along one wall. There’s a whiteboard with math that Derek can barely follow written on it in an untidy scrawl. The world’s oldest looking coffee pot sits directly on top of the antique walnut desk, and there are at least six different half empty coffee mugs littered about. Even from here Derek can see a coffee ring on what looks like an official letter. In the ten years Derek’s been working here, he’s never once seen anyone’s office looking like this.

“Hey!” Stiles ducks up from behind the desk where he’d been bending down to retrieve something and beams at Derek. “Professor Hale, right? Organic Chem?” He scrambles to his feet and hurries round the desk, hair sticking up in all directions. When he reaches Derek he sticks out a hand.

Slowly Derek reaches out and takes it. Shakes it, still looking about himself in something akin to awe. “Yeah,” he says.

“Mieczyslaw Stilinski,” Stiles says when Derek doesn’t say anything else. “But you can call me Stiles. By the way, thanks for your help the other day.” He purses his lips and squints at Derek. “Kind of a mess, huh?”

“It’s uh– I mean,” Derek says. Stiles is looking at him. His eyes are brown. Derek is still holding his hand. Stiles’ eyes are deep brown, and Derek isn’t shaking Stiles’ hand anymore-- just holding it. He lets go. “Um.”

“I know it looks like chaos, but I do know where everything is, and I am gonna get round to sorting it eventually. There’s just so much stuff to do, y’know? Hey, would you like a cupcake? As a thank-you for the other day?”

He reaches over to a scuffed looking tupperware box that’s balanced precariously on a shelf and prises the lid off, then holds it out for Derek to inspect. There are four slightly squished looking cupcakes inside decorated with pink frosting.

“They don’t travel well,” Stiles says blithely. “But they taste nice. Promise.”

Somehow in the process of opening the box, Stiles has managed to get frosting on his fingers and as Derek looks on with horrified fascination, he starts to lick them clean. “Sure I can’t tempt you?” he asks, blinking at Derek hopefully. He has frosting on his bottom lip. Lips that, only a few days ago were smiling at Lydia Martin.

“I–uh–yes. No. I have to go,” Derek says and books it out of there like the hounds of hell are nipping at his heels. When he finally reaches the sanctuary of his own office he locks the door behind him and collapses in his chair thoroughly rattled. He buries himself in grading papers for the rest of the day. When Isaac joins him later and Derek describes what happened, the bastard won’t stop laughing.

-

By lunchtime the next day Derek’s almost recovered, and then Stiles has to go and ruin everything again. He knocks tentatively on their office door at midday, and when Derek and Isaac look up they see him standing in the doorway, shoulders hunched a little like he’s embarrassed or unsure; he’s clutching a brown paper bag to his chest. He says, “Professor Hale, and uh–hey, you’re Professor Lahey, right? We haven’t been introduced yet. Hi.”

Isaac, the traitor, shoots Derek a look that says he’s  fucking delighted by this turn of events. “Hey. You’re Stilinski right? Come in.”

“Thanks.” Stiles shuffles in, bag still clutched to his chest like a shield. “Wow your place is pretty neat, huh?”   
  
Derek’s side of the office, at least, is immaculate. Everything on his desk is lined up neatly perpendicular to the edge. Also he has a filing system that he’s developed over years and years of teaching, it’s a thing of beauty. At any given moment any student or member of the faculty could walk in and ask him to find a piece of work or a lesson plan and he would be able to find it in thirty seconds. Easily. Up until yesterday, Derek would have described Isaac’s side of the room as sloppy, now he knows he’s been unforgivably harsh on his colleague.

“How you settling in?” Isaac asks Stiles.

“Not bad. Not bad. Not bad.”

Derek doesn’t trust himself to look directly at him, and stubbornly refuses to stop typing. But then Stiles rests his hip up against Derek’s desk and says, “Hey, I uh–I was–wondering–if you maybe wanna get something to eat with me?”

It takes Derek a full minute to realize that this question is directed at him, and only then because Isaac has kicked his shin under the desk. Derek glances up, to find Stiles looking down at him hopefully. “I–uh–” he swallows. “S–Sorry. Busy to finish up here.”

The sentence doesn’t even make sense, and Derek can feel Isaac staring at him, radiating disbelief.

“Oh, okay,” Stiles says, his shoulders slump. He turns to go and immediately Derek’s eyes dart up guiltily to watch him leave.

Across from him Isaac is miming some elaborate charade that Derek can’t begin to interpret. It looks like it involves a moose, or maybe a dog trapped in a well. Derek shrugs palms up, mimes the word “What?”

Isaac gets all pissy faced.

“Hey, Stilinski,” he says, still glaring at Derek. “If you want some company I’ll come with you!” Grabbing his blazer he scrambles after Stiles, slamming the door behind them.

After they leave Derek jabs the ‘T’ key on his laptop so hard it sticks, and by the time he’s managed to free it he has three full pages of ‘T’s’ in Arial 11pt font.

-

Half an hour later Derek returns from a quick trip to the restroom, and finds a fresh cup of coffee from his favorite campus coffee shop and a familiar looking brown paper bag on his desk. The bag has a danish inside it, and a post it note stuck to the front which reads: “Because you don’t seem to like cupcakes.” The scrawl is both untidy and familiar. Derek sniffs the coffee suspiciously, stomach swooping. It’s exactly what he always orders.

A moment later Isaac walks through the door, takes one look at Derek’s expression and laughs.

“It isn’t a bomb,” he says.

“I don’t like to eat or drink at my desk,” Derek says gruffly, but he opens his desk drawer and takes out a couple of paper napkins. Spreads them out painstakingly and then places the coffee on one and the danish on the other. Carefully he breaks a corner of the danish off and takes a bite, chews it thoughtfully. It’s buttery and crumbly and delicious. The apple filling is tangy with an undercurrent of cinnamon.

“Not bad, huh?” Isaac says, all smug.

“It’s okay,” Derek says, but he eats the whole thing.

-

That night before he leaves, Derek wanders up to Stiles’ office and hovers outside nervously, before finally plucking up the nerve to knock. There’s no answer, but the door is ajar, and when Derek sticks his head round, he sees that a little progress has been made on tidying the office. The desk, at least has some space cleared on it.

He was going to say thank-you for the coffee and the danish. Isaac had been going on about it all afternoon, berating him for being so rude to Stiles earlier. But Stiles isn’t here, and Derek can’t help feel that maybe it’s a lucky escape. The guy puts Derek on edge so bad he can’t even get a sentence out around him.

He’s about to leave. He really is. But then his eye falls to the coffee pot again. It’s actually disgusting. Covered in layers of grime that suggest it probably hasn’t been cleaned in months. Years maybe. The idea of anyone drinking out of it fills Derek with dread. It occurs to him that he could totally clean it. He’s a chemist and they have acetic acid in the storeroom. It wouldn’t be a big deal.

He taps his fingers against his thigh, and then, after a second battling with himself, steps further into the room and traces the cord from the coffee pot back to the wall socket.

Derek figures Stiles isn’t here. And he can have it back here in half an hour or so. Nobody will be any the wiser.

That’s how he justifies it to himself.

-

The next morning when Derek arrives at work there’s his favorite coffee and a danish waiting on his desk for him, with another post-it attached that reads: Thanks a latte!

He looks over at Isaac who shrugs.

“Wasn’t me,” he says.

Derek hadn’t actually thought it was, but he doesn’t understand why Stiles would do this again–unless, but no. There’s no way Stiles knows it was him that broke into his office and cleaned his coffee pot, is there?

Except clearly there is, and Derek can feel himself blushing. God. He doesn’t know how he’s gonna look Stiles in the eye.

He still sits down at his desk and makes short work of the coffee and the danish though. It’s the best way to console himself.

-

That lunchtime Stiles comes by again, this time he strides into the room a little more confidently, greets Isaac and then comes to stand at Derek’s desk.

“Hey,” he says, with a wide grin.

Derek looks up at him. “Uh-Hi.” He’s halfway through grading papers, but he can feel his palms going all sweaty, and he swallows thickly.

“So,” Stiles says, when Derek doesn’t say anything else, “Thanks for y’know–the coffee pot. I was meaning to do it myself, but I’ve been so busy.”

Derek looks up. “How did you know it was me?” he blurts.

Stiles smiles at him. “I saw you return it. I was in Lydia’s office helping her with a thing, but you can see my door from there and–” he grins. “That was really sweet of you.”

Derek glowers. Lydia. Of course he was with Lydia. Out loud he says, “It was filthy.”

“I know. Good ol’ Sparky.” Stiles smiles fondly. “My trusty pal. I’ve had him since college.”

“Have you cleaned him since then?”

Stiles eyes narrow. “Of course I have,” he says, blushing prettily.

Derek feels like a heel. Says, “Sorry. The danish and the coffee were really– uh. Thanks.”

Stiles tongue darts out to wet his lips, and then he smiles, bright and wide. Beaming. “You liked the danish?” he asks, eyes shining.

“Yeah–I–uh” Derek swallows, wilting a little under Stiles’ unabashed enthusiasm. “I–I really–I–need the bathroom,” he announces loudly, and bolts from the room. He hides in a stall for the next ten minutes.

When he gets back Isaac is sitting at his desk, lips all pursed and judgemental. “Seriously, Hale, you’re about as much use as a screen door on a submarine,” he says.

-

It becomes a regular thing. Every morning when Derek gets in there’s a cup from his favorite coffee house waiting on his desk, made up just how he likes it. There’s always a brown paper bag with a pastry or cake in it too, and the bag always has a post it stuck to it with a terrible pun. Once Stiles has exhausted all the coffee based ones he can think of like ‘Has-bean,’ or ‘have a brewtiful day,’ he moves onto terrible chemistry ones.   
  
The first time Derek reads ‘Once I told a Chemistry joke, there was no reaction,’ he huffs out a long-suffering sigh. The next day he gets ‘I’m telling bad chemistry jokes, because all the good ones argon.’ Within a month he has a drawer full of post its, carefully preserved so he can look at them whenever Isaac isn’t around. He keeps his napkins on top of them, so that no one will know they’re there.

Stiles takes to visiting once or twice a week and sits with Derek and Isaac at lunch. He spends his time joking with Isaac and patiently prising conversation out of Derek who is slowly, oh so slowly, managing to speak around him without sounding a) rude or b) like he’s forgotten how to use words at all.

“He’s a good guy,” Derek says a little wistfully to Isaac, after Stiles leaves one day to go teach a class.

“Yeah,” Isaac says, distracted by Candy Crush on his phone. “Stilinski’s okay.”

Stiles is more than okay. Derek’s lucky to have him as a friend, and Lydia, well, she might be the luckiest one of all.

-

About two months in Derek walks in one morning and there’s no brown paper bag on his desk, no coffee either. He’s in full blown panic mode by the time Isaac

arrives five minutes later.

“Stilinski called in sick today,” he says before Derek can even ask.

“Well is he going to be okay?”

“It’s just flu. Why, missing your morning coffee?” he says with a smirk.

Derek doesn’t say anything, just scowls, irritable with worry; he grabs his laptop bag and jacket and heads for his class.

Later at lunchtime he sits at his desk and wonders if he should text Stiles and see how he is. He would do if he had his number, but he’s always been too awkward to ask for it, and now doesn’t know what to do.

“Any news from Stiles?” he asks Isaac over lunch.

“He’s holed up in bed, feeling sorry for himself. Why?” Isaac opens a bottle of gatorade and takes a long sip.

“Does he–” Derek stares down at his own hands. He doesn’t know anything about Stiles’ living arrangements. “Is Lydia gonna keep an eye on him or?”

“Lydia?”

“You know. Professor Martin.” Isaac stares at him blankly. “His girlfriend.”

Isaac spits gatorade all over his desk. “Are you serious right now?”

“What?”

“You think Lydia Martin is his girlfriend? You think Stiles is into Lydia.”

Derek nods.

“Wow. Wow.” Isaac shakes his head. “For a smart guy you’re pretty stupid. Unbelievable.”

“You mean they’re not–?”

Isaac stares at him. “He brings you coffee every morning. He writes those godawful notes that you keep in your drawer and won’t stop looking at when you think no ones watching. He bakes you pastries,” Isaac says. “Did you know that? Every day he bakes for you.”

Derek did not, in fact, know that. He gulps. “But–”

“Where’s my coffee, Derek!” Isaac gets to his feet. “Where are my goddamn cakes and delicious pastries? Does he bring me anything? No! Do I get any kind of compensation for watching you two socially incompetent idiots dance around each other like– Jesus! Dating Lydia!”

“I–”

“I am so angry with you right now, I can’t even. Here–” Isaac takes out a piece of paper and scrawls an address on to it. He shoves it into Derek’s hand. “I’m done with you two.”

With that he walks out and slams the door behind him.

Derek gapes after him. Then he stares down at the little piece of paper in his hand. Turns out he knows Stiles apartment building, it’s round the corner from his favorite pizza place.

Huh.

-

Later that evening, after circling the block twice trying to calm his roiling stomach, he turns up at that Stiles’ building clutching a brown paper bag to himself, the heat from it bleeding through his windbreaker and warming his chest. He hits the buzzer. After a long moment there’s a staticky noise and then Stiles’ voice rasps– “Hello?”

“It’s Derek,” Derek says.

A long pause follows. “Derek?” Stiles voice, thick with cold, now sounds a little panicked. “How–”

“Can I come up?”

“Really? I’m kinda ill and–”

“Please?”

There’s a deep sigh. “‘K.” There’s a harsh buzzing noise and the door to the apartment building clicks open.

When Derek finally reaches Stiles’ door he’s kinda swaying in the doorway wrapped in a comforter, nose red and shiny, eyes all watery with cold. “What are you doing?” Derek says horrified. “Get back to bed.” He herds Stiles back through to his bedroom.

“I can’t b’lieve you came to my place,” Stiles moans. “And I look like this. Oh my god.”

“Just get into bed,” Derek says, irritably. “You look fine.”

“You’re such a liar,” Stiles opines clambering into his double bed and pulling his comforter over him. “Why are you even here.” He blinks up at Derek, like he’s betrayed him.

“I–uh–” Derek’s palms feel all sweaty. “I brought you a gift.”

“A gift?” Stiles sits up a little straighter. “What sort of gift?”

Derek hands him the paper bag carefully, and Stiles reaches out to take it. “Chicken soup,” Derek explains. “My mom’s recipe.” Stiles stares at it. Derek says, “There’s a note. Oh wait. It’s fallen off.” It’s actually sticking to Derek’s coat. He rips the post-it off and hands it to Stiles, who stares down at it.

“I think you’re soupa,” he reads aloud. He looks up at Derek. “Really?” he says, eyes all wide and hopeful. God. Derek really has been an idiot.

He nods, feeling nervous but not as nervous as he did in the car on the way here. “Yes.”

Stiles laughs and it turns into a hacking cough, his shoulders shake with it and he hands the soup back to Derek who takes it hovering over him nervously.

“Come here,” Stiles says, when he finally calms. “I have something to say to you.” He pats the edge of his bed and after a beat Derek sits down.

Stiles leans forward, takes Derek’s hand. “Derek,” he says, voice all raspy with cold but deadly serious. “Are you a carbon sample? Because I want to date you.”

  
It’s awful. So awful, and Derek tries to glare at him, but the truth is he can’t stop smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone who leaves kudos or comments. It's really appreciated. 
> 
> Come join me on [tumblr!](http://yodas-yo-yo.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Also, a disclaimer about the title of this series of fics:  
> When I say fluffy assholes, I don't mean buttholes covered in lint. I mean that these fics are fluffy and the characters are assholes. I feel this needs to be stated. For the record, my tumblr followers are all awesome, and to my knowledge, in no way assholes, fluffy or otherwise.


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